


Once Bitten

by haking17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Humor, Love Bites, M/M, Not series specific, One Shot, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 04:25:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haking17/pseuds/haking17
Summary: Sherlock is lacking knowledge of 'love-bites' and wants the issue remedied...immediately.





	Once Bitten

**Author's Note:**

> Not Brit-picked; I follow the examples of what I read in other fics. No beta; all mistakes are mine. :)

**“Once Bitten”**

 

“You know, one of these days, she just may take a swing at you.”

Sherlock huffed, continued to glare through the cab’s window as London whipped by them. John smirked, turned his gaze to his own window. At least, the case wasn’t something that was going to keep them out any longer. It was already well past midnight and bitterly cold (as March nights were ought to be) and they’d been at it since right before dawn, when Lestrade had texted Sherlock about the case—a questionable suicide which, eventually, Sherlock proved to be a homicide.

“I’d have solved it sooner had those imposter-inspectors not mucked up the crime scene so dismally. How are they to improve if their mistakes are not pointed out?”

“Constructive criticism is fine,” John conceded, giving Sherlock a side glance. “Implying that one’s personal and private activities may be the reason for the need of such constructive criticism is a bit not good.”

“Neither are Anderson’s personal and private activities, given the half-mauled mark on Donovan’s neck.”

Sherlock glanced towards John, caught his eye, and both men burst into laughter.

“Laughing is also a bit not good,” John chuckled, shaking his head as the cab pulled to a stop in front of Baker Street.

He slid out first, making Sherlock pay and considering that a penance for whatever personal inflection Donovan may have acquired this evening—from Sherlock or Anderson.

~*~*~

“Why would anyone even _want_ to be marked like that?”

John looked up from where he sat on the sofa, reading the morning newspaper, mentally hurrying to catch whatever train of thought Sherlock was currently on.

“Oh,” he said after a moment, “are we still on the Case of the Abhorrent Love-Bite?”

Sherlock gave a snort from where he stood at the window, looking out into the street.

“Yes, I am referring to Case of the Abhorrent Love-Bite. Why would anyone willingly agree to such a thing? What’s the purpose?”

Sherlock turned to face John, genuine curiosity on his face. It still amazed John that the man who could know so much could also know so very little.

“Well, some may see it as a sign of ownership, of possession.”

“I was given to believe that people do not normally like the idea of being owned. Wasn’t there a war or two over that very idea?”

“I’m not talking about slavery, Sherlock,” John replied, folding up his newspaper. “It’s, well, it’s different for different people. Some people like it; some don’t. Those who like it, like the idea of the world knowing that the person they are in a relationship belongs to them and vice versa.”

“Isn’t that why there are wedding rings?”

“Yes, but a hickey isn’t as life-changing, you know?”

Sherlock frowned, brow furrowing.

“No, actually, I don’t know.”

He crossed the sitting room and plopped down next to John, staring intently.

“Have _you_ ever given one?”

“Sure, lots,” John shrugged, trying not to squirm under Sherlock’s tightening gaze. “Gotten a fair share, too.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed, a flash of heat darkening his eyes.

“ _Who_?” he all but hissed. “Who has marked you, _owned_ you, John Hamish Watson?”

“Christ, Sherlock, I didn’t keep a ledger. You get caught up in the moment and it just happens.”

“Oh; then, it’s not really as significant as it appears?” Sherlock sat back, contemplating.

“Depends on the couple,” John said. “Like I said, it means different things to different people.”

“What does it mean to _you_?” Sherlock asked.

“Well,” John scratched the back of his neck, trying to find the words to explain, “Personally, I like it—giving and receiving. It’s a deeper level of intimacy for me. I mean, it shows how passionate you are about the person without having to use words. Plus, it’s a nice warning to anyone else who might try to make a move on your partner.”

“So, it’s like marking your territory,” Sherlock raised a brow. “How animalistic.”

“Oh, bollocks,” John playfully punched Sherlock’s shoulder, “don’t trivialize it like that. Yes, it does look that way and that’s why some folks don’t like it. And, that’s also why some folks don’t like it pointed out by smart-arse detectives during a crime scene.”

“Then they should wear scarves. Or, a balaclava.”

“Twit. Come here.”

Sherlock acquiesced, leaning into John’s embrace. His thoughts whirled as John’s fingers combed through his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

“I want one,” Sherlock said, after a few moments of silence and John’s fingers stilled.

“That covers a lot of things, Sherlock; be more specific.”

Sighing, Sherlock sat up and deftly moved so that he was straddling John’s lap.

“I want to have your mark.”

John looked up at him, smiling while his hands rested on Sherlock’s hips.

“Do you now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock looped his arms around John’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together, his voice dropping a register. “I want to wear your mark, be owned by you, and show the world that I’m yours and only yours.”

A mixture of a hum and growl vibrated from John as their lips met.

“You know, the world already believes us to belong to one another and has for far longer than we ourselves have realized it. I don’t have to mark you to prove that you are mine and that I am yours. If I do, then I’m sorely failing at my side of this relationship.”

“I don’t question your commitment to me, John,” Sherlock sighed, face nearly twisted into a pout, “or to us. I just…I just want what you’ve given to others, damn it.”

John laughed, clutching Sherlock close to him in a tight hug.

“You jealous, daft man,” he said, kissing at Sherlock’s jaw and neck.

Sherlock stretched his neck, granting John better access to the lengthy, pale column. John hummed appreciatively, worrying a spot of skin with his lips and just a touch of teeth. He’d be lying if he denied ever thinking about tattooing Sherlock’s neck with his kisses, broadcasting to the world that the too-sexy-and-smart-for-his-own-good-detective was well spoken for. That possessive thought had John tightening his hold on Sherlock’s hips, digging through his clothes into the skin beneath, and adding even more pressure to the suckling on Sherlock’s neck.

In John’s lap, Sherlock squirmed, breath hitching while he cupped the back of John’s head with one hand and gripped a shoulder with the other. He was doing all he could to practically meld the two of them together. Visions of what the mark would look like—violently vibrant against the paleness of his skin—sent a shiver through Sherlock. He would have thought he’d had felt cheapened by such a lewd act but, rather, it made him feel cherished—honored, even, to be able to illustrate to the world that someone loved him passionately enough to mark him so brazenly.

Sherlock ground his hips into John’s lap, their clothed erections bumping annoying against their clothes in search of the other. The ensuing gasp from John broke him away from Sherlock’s neck.

“Christ,” he rasped, “had I known that this would get you so riled up…”

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock interrupted, trying to push John back into his neck while still continuing to grind into his lap.

“Easy, there,” John said, pulling out of Sherlock’s grip, “this might work better if we move to the bedroom, yeah?”

“Yes, fine, whatever,” Sherlock jumped from John’s lap, landing on wobbly legs he could barely control and grabbed John’s hand, pulling him out of the sofa and all but dragging him down the hall to their bedroom. “Hurry up, then.”

John could only reply with a breathless chuckle as he followed Sherlock.

Somehow they managed to strip themselves of their clothes and find the bed, John looming over Sherlock and trailing kisses down his jaw back to the blooming bruise on the side of his neck. Sherlock arched upwards, grinding against John as he pulled the man closer to him, fingernails digging into John’s back to leave their own marks--marks that wouldn’t necessarily be seen by anyone else but would be felt by John throughout the day.

John’s muffled growl of approval vibrated through Sherlock. He broke away from the inflamed stain on Sherlock’s neck, kissing it reverently before raising his head to meet a pair of debauched, cosmic-colored eyes.

“That ought to do it,” he husked, catching Sherlock’s bottom lip in a playful nip.

“Mmnfg…” came the reply along with two hands gripping John’s arse.

“Always so demanding,” John chuckled, reaching for the lube in the nearby drawer.

He reached a slicked hand between them, joining their weeping cocks as he joined their mouths in another searing kiss. He knew neither would last much longer and was proven right as he felt Sherlock tense and buckle under him, his cry swallowed down in the kiss as he climaxed. Their kiss broke just enough for John to gasp a breath and follow with his own orgasm.

He all but flopped down next to Sherlock, resting his hand over his lover’s racing heart. Before he could fully enjoy the afterglow, Sherlock was popping out of the bed and heading to the loo—very much resembling a new-born calf trying to get his legs work. 

“Do you want me to take a picture of it?” John called out, smirking.

Sherlock returned, a flannel in one hand while the other touched the love-bite on his neck.

“No picture could ever do it justice,” he said, climbing back into bed and cleaning them both. 

“You’re going to add a whole new room to that Mind Palace of yours just for that bite, aren’t you?” John teased; welcoming Sherlock into his arms after Sherlock tossed away the flannel.

“Might have to build a whole new wing,” Sherlock mumbled, fatigue already settling in.

“Flatterer,” John remarked, kissing the top of Sherlock’s head as he tucked the sheet around them. “So, do you feel properly owned now?”

Sherlock took one of John’s hands into his own, lacing their fingers together.

“Oh, John. As always, you see but do not observe. You have owned me from the very second you walked into Bart’s lab.”

John blinked several times, willing away the moisture collecting in his eyes. Not trusting his voice, he simply hugged Sherlock closer to him, bringing their joined hands to his lips and kissing their interlocked fingers. Basking in the afterglow, the two drifted off into unconsciousness, hands still entwined.

It seemed like mere seconds later that John was being rousted from a comfortable sleep.

“John—wake up, John! We have a case!”

“Wha—yeah, yeah,” John grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eye, “just gimme a moment.”

He squinted at the clock to see that he’d slept for only an hour. He sat up, slowly stretching.

“Hurry up, John!”

Sherlock stood, or rather all but vibrated with energy in front of him, meticulously cleaned and poured into a suit that fit him like a second skin. The white shirt he wore only furthered highlighted the love-bite on his neck.

John leaned back, nonchalantly, a grin splitting his face.

“You just want to show that off,” he accused.

“Oh, please, John. Like I would really orchestrate a crime that would require Lestrade to call us out to a scene for the sole purpose of broadcasting your sexual prowess over me.”

“I was talking about the new suit.”

It wasn’t often that John left Sherlock speechless, mouth agape, but this was one of those glorious times that John would remember forever. He stood up, stark naked, and stood in front of Sherlock. He gently traced a finger over the hickey.

“Hmm, it is rather fetching on you,” he murmured, stealing a quick kiss before sauntering towards the loo.

“The, uh, suit or the love-bite?” Sherlock managed to croak out, following John with hungry eyes.

John answered with a hungry look of his own, thrown over his shoulder and gliding over Sherlock from head to toe and back again. He continued into the loo without a word.

Sherlock fished his phone out of his pants’ pocket and shot off a text to Lestrade.

_It was the neighbor. Check the shed for the hammer; it’ll have his prints and the victim’s blood on it._

He then shut off the phone and tossed it onto the nightstand, stripping off his suit on his way to the loo just as he heard the shower start.

Perhaps he’d be able to give John a mark of his own this time.

**~End~**


End file.
